CHAPTER 1
Will
I’d never understood the appeal of parties. That my twin sister was a party planner and therefore I was currently obliged to attend this one, well…at least there was free top-shelf whiskey.
I sipped my drink as Charlotte made her way over to me. I braced for her usual “Stop scowling, Will,” though no doubt she’d say it with a smile. Party-mode Charlotte was as smooth as the expensive bourbon I was currently enjoying.
“Have you tried the mini asparagus quiches?” Charlotte asked instead, linking her arm with mine. “They have Gruyère and dill and are to die for.”
“I did. They’re delicious.” Trying the appetizers had given me something to do besides talk to strangers.
She smiled, surveying the crowd with a satisfied look. “It’s going well, don’t you think?”
“Of course.” I raised my glass. “This is as good as the quiches.” Better, as far as I was concerned, but I didn’t say it. My sister was proud of her hors d’oeuvres. It would’ve been too hot for whiskey and quiche, if the central air weren’t keeping the worst of the D.C. summer heat outside where it belonged. I couldn’t say the same for my own apartment.
“It better be. Oakley paid for premium booze.” Her eyes darted around the room, cataloguing everything at once. We might have been opposites with regard to extroversion and introversion, but we were both detail-oriented, observant, and appreciated the aesthetic. Of course, I took one look at the well-appointed house with the cathedral ceilings and the fifty-or-so well-dressed rich people and it just made me tired. My sister, on the other hand, looked triumphant.
“So you’re pleased?” My sister’s event planning company was her pride and joy, and it wasn’t easy to make an impression in D.C. Everything here ran on favors and networking. Charlie had been thrilled to get the Oakley contract, even if the guy was a bit of a sleazeball. Oakley had an impressive art collection though, which was the carrot Charlie had dangled to entice me to attend. That, and the premium bourbon and delicious appetizers. Hors d’oeuvres. Whatever.
“Very.” She snagged my glass and finished off the whiskey, then glanced at me, as if I was going to say anything. I’d need more than a sip to do her job, and I could always get another one. She pressed the glass back in my hand, and then her eyes went wide. She nudged me and said in a low voice, “My target for the evening has arrived.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Fox Fêtes is a cover for assassins? You know I’m going to have to call in that tip.”
She laughed. “No, my white whale is here.”
I stared at her. “Uh.”
“Your literary references need work, Will.” She nodded toward a tall man in the center of the room, who I could only see from the back. “Do you know who that is?”
I resisted pointing out my sister was the one with all the friends, and followed her gaze. All I saw was silver hair in a braid, and I had no idea to whom it belonged. “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me, Captain Ahab.”
“That’s Amory Vaughn. He’s a philanthropist, and he’s in charge of the Vaughn Foundation. When I saw his name on the guest list, I knew tonight had to be perfect. I checked around, and he isn’t loyal to any one party planning company. But I think he should be. Specifically, to mine.”
“Ah.” I had no idea who he was or what the Vaughn Foundation did, but he must be rich. Who else had foundations named after them? “Have you spoken to him yet?”
“No, I’m still in the plotting stages. First I want the party to speak for me.” She glanced at me. “You should introduce yourself though. I hear he’s an avid supporter of the arts.”
I waited.
“And might just be bisexual like me,” she added with a meaningful wink.
Charlotte overestimated my ability to pick up men, considering I’d been single since my only long-term relationship had ended more than ten years ago.
“He’s a bit old for me, isn’t he?” I said, eyeing that silver-white hair. I might not have been the best at picking up men, but at thirty-four and gainfully employed I didn’t think I was quite at the stage where she needed to find me a sugar daddy either. “Are you trying to hook me up with someone who’ll drop dead in a few years to help out your business’s cash flow?”
“Now that you mention it…” Charlotte winked at me again. “No, he’s not that much older than you, I don’t think. It’s just the hair. See?”
Her white whale had finally turned around, so I got a look at the rest of him. She was right—he looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties. Even from across the room I could tell he had features that were more striking than handsome. I had no intention of trying to lure in a man for the sake of my sister’s business, but if I was going to try…he certainly wouldn’t be a bad choice.
Of course, it was only hypothetical. “You’re a lot more charming than me, Charlie. Maybe you should do the seducing.”
“Ew, don’t ever say that word.” She gave a theatrical shudder. “Also I’m not fucking people to get contracts.”
“You’d let me do it though?”
“Yup.” She grinned back at me, a less subdued version of my own smile. “I have absolutely no problem with that. Anyway, like I said, he’s into art—even that modern art stuff you like.”
I liked all kinds of art, including some modern, and old grad school habits died hard, but I’d given up talking about it to Charlie since she was about as interested in art as I was in party planning. “I do want to go see Oakley’s collection.” Even if I suspected his desire to collect art wasn’t motivated by sheer appreciation. Keith Oakley was not the kind of man who had art because he appreciated it. He was the kind of man who had art because it appreciated.
“Excuse me, Charlotte?” One of the catering staff appeared with a table linen crisis and Charlie went off to handle it, allowing me to slip back into my habitual observation. And fine, maybe now I was observing Amory Vaughn more than anyone or anything else at the party.
He was wearing a gray suit that perfectly complemented his fair skin and hair, and if the effect was any indication it probably cost more than all the top-shelf liquor at this party. At some point my stare must have turned a bit too obvious, because Vaughn turned like he felt my eyes on him and met my gaze steadily. He was too far away to make out his eye color, but I could tell they were pale. Strange that a man who was so…colorless…would be the most vibrant thing in the room.
I didn’t know much about Keith Oakley—hell, I wasn’t even sure exactly what a hedge fund was—but I had a feeling we wouldn’t get along. And his guest list didn’t seem much more likely to be new-friend material. But Amory Vaughn…I couldn’t stop looking at him, even after he’d caught me. And after our eyes met this time, he didn’t look away. He held my gaze and the corner of his mouth quirked up, as if he knew I was checking him out. I thought about letting my eyes deliberately wander up and down his body, and see what happened. Thought about, but didn’t do it. I was bad at flirting.
He did it to me though. And then he winked.
If I were good at flirting, I suppose I would have winked back. Since I apparently hadn’t gotten any better at it since the last time I’d tried, I just took another sip of whiskey and watched him turn his attention to a woman who’d approached him. I also decided that while I was enjoying watching him, and while the mild flirtation had gotten my blood heated, standing in one spot was making me look like a serial killer. Or a museum docent. Since I was neither, I scanned the room for a less obvious observation spot, and got a refill on my way there.
It was easy to keep track of Amory Vaughn. He was easily the tallest man in the room. It was more than that though. He had a presence about him—and a crowd, which made sense if he gave away money. While I couldn’t follow what he was saying, I caught enough to hear that he had a southern drawl that was pure old money. That I then started thinking about that voice speaking in my ear while in bed was…stupid, since I had zero luck with men and had only had a few one-night stands. But hot. It was also hot.
He saw me watching him again, even from my new vantage point. Our eyes met a few more times, and I couldn’t ignore the pleasant tingle of awareness that went through me when it happened. My face felt flushed from more than the whiskey, and if there was ever a time I’d had such a strong physical reaction to a man I’d never even spoken to, I couldn’t recall it. I savored the feeling, but it also reminded me how long it’d been since I’d heard anyone’s voice in my ear in bed that wasn’t porn through a set of headphones.
I wanted another whiskey, though I knew I shouldn’t have one. The buzz I already had probably explained why I was making eyes at a stranger in a party full of hedge fund managers and investors and…whoever these people were. I was still considering the pros and cons of another drink when I noticed that Mr. Tall, Fair, and Charming was making his way across the room…to me. Looking at me with an expression that clearly said I was the destination he had in mind.
My heart thudded in my chest, and my mouth went dry. I managed to slide my empty glass onto the tray of a passing server before I completely panicked. Staring at an attractive man across the room was one thing. But my mind was blurred by whiskey and a long day of work, and I didn’t have the usual mental faculties I would need to navigate a conversation with a stranger. A hot stranger. A confident, stranger whose eyes were locked on mine with a single-mindedness that suggested he had no anxiety whatsoever about casual conversation.
Maybe those drinks were a good thing, Drunk Will encouraged slyly. Drunk Will very often sounded like Charlotte.
It was not a good thing. Knowing me, I’d open my mouth and “I wasn’t looking at you” would come out. No, I’d rather keep my one-night stand a hypothetical than ruin it with the stark reality of my terrible flirting skills.
With that conviction, instead of letting the hot man I’d been staring at approach me, I made my getaway downstairs to Oakley’s art collection. With no booze, no food, and no schmoozing, it was a much-needed respite. I still felt flushed and too hot, but at least the air was cooler and I was alone with nothing but the muffled sound of the party above me. Most of Oakley’s artwork wasn’t quite as interesting as the man I’d been subtly eye-fucking, but it was safer. It wouldn’t try and talk to me.
I found myself in front of a J.D. Staunton oil painting called Sunset Down. Unlike the rest of Oakley’s mediocre collection, it was gorgeous, vibrant oranges and reds and yellows blending one into the other. There was a thin line of blue-black at the very bottom of the painting, like the darkness of night lurked just beneath the horizon to swallow the light of the sunset.
“I overheard our esteemed host saying he purchased this painting because it coordinated splendidly with the rug.”
The voice raised all the hairs on the back of my neck, and made me wonder if my panicked running off had been read as an invitation.
Maybe it was, said Drunk Will.
Amory Vaughn moved to stand beside me, but his eyes were not on the artwork. I finally turned, reminded myself I was not so out of touch with humanity that I couldn’t have a conversation—especially about something I loved—and said, “That doesn’t surprise me. He has it lit all wrong too.” I gestured. “It’s a sunset, and he’s lit it like it’s the middle of the day.”
“And why is that, do you imagine?”
I had to force myself not to shiver at the sound of his voice. I’d always had a thing for voices. It was why I watched porn with earphones. I liked to hear the sounds, the gasps, and the dirty talk, even if it was sometimes absurd.
I glanced around at the other paintings. It was a respectable collection, but nothing was as valuable or interesting as the Staunton. “It’s the most expensive, so it gets the spotlight.” I glanced at him, trying to think of something to say. “What do you see?” I asked, eventually. When nervous, I fell into familiar habits. Asking questions was definitely familiar.
“Are you asking me about the rug or the painting?” he asked. His eyes were a clear, pale gray, adding to the unusual effect of his hair and his suit.
“The painting,” I answered.
He smiled, like I’d missed a joke or he’d been teasing and didn’t expect me to answer. If Charlotte could hear my attempt at flirting, she’d weep. Her white whale—and that coveted contract—was about to take a deep-sea dive.
“I think it’s lovely.” He wasn’t looking at the painting. “Reminds me a bit of Turner’s colors, only bolder.”
Turner was my favorite painter, and I’d written my master’s thesis on him. I loved how he rendered the violence inherent in natural disasters with such striking delicacy. I could have talked about that at length if I wasn’t fighting my body’s reaction to this stranger’s scent and the caress of that silky voice. “It’s harder to convey subtlety in oils,” I said. “And I think the point of the painting is the honesty of it.”
“Not something one often finds in D.C.,” he murmured, and I gave a genuine laugh. “Are you an investor?” he asked.
I blinked, confused, and then shook my head. “You mean in hedge funds? I don’t even really know what those are.”
He smiled, and my stomach gave an entirely unwelcome flutter. “I meant in art.”
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “Just an appreciator. You?”
“Oh, I am definitely an appreciator,” he said, his voice a purr. He held his hand out. “I’m Vaughn.”
“Will,” I said, and reached out to shake his hand. The second our skin touched, I felt my cock start to harden. I knew it’d been a while, but Jesus.
“So, Will, what brings you here?”
“My sister’s the event planner. Charlotte Fox.” Might as well throw that in there in case I didn’t manage to harpoon her whale. I spread my arms out and smiled. “So I’m just here for the good whiskey, the free food, and moral support. You?”
“The asparagus quiche was delicious. Please convey my compliments to your sister. And I suppose you could say I am an investor, of a sort. I’m the head of my family’s philanthropic foundation, and that means I attend quite a few parties. Most of them are exceptionally dull.” He moved closer, and my heart rate kicked up another notch. “I’m finding this one unexpectedly enjoyable, however.”
“That because of the art collection?” I asked. Warmth curled in my stomach and spread through me, like the sunset from the Staunton had slipped directly into my veins. He smelled good, Vaughn. I caught eucalyptus and amber, along with something woodsy and natural, like pine. It made my mouth water.
“The Staunton is lovely, but I’ve seen better.” He reached out slowly, eyes still on mine, and drew a single long finger down the lapel of my suit jacket. It was one of the hottest things any man had ever done to me, dressed or undressed; in bed or out. I shivered, and my breath caught in a sharp inhalation. I could see how much he liked my reaction. There was something sly and challenging in his expression before he leaned down and kissed me.
His mouth was hot and his hands were suddenly on my shoulders, giving me a little push until my shoulders hit the wall. I slid a hand around the back of Vaughn’s head, fingers caressing the strands of braided hair. I slid my other hand down his chest as we kissed, feeling lean muscle, strong but sinewy. I rested my hand on his stomach as we kissed, as if I could measure the space between us, and I made a sound as we broke apart to breathe.
I did not make out with strangers at parties. I couldn’t even really blame the whiskey either. Vaughn was overwhelming, as bold as that goddamn Staunton, and so attractive that the second his mouth met mine I knew I wasn’t going to push him away. Vaughn dropped one of his hands and began to boldly rub me through my pants while his mouth did wicked things to my neck.
“You—” I didn’t know what to say, so I just pulled him back in and kissed him again. He nipped at my bottom lip with sharp teeth, and I widened my legs as his hands began to work at my belt. There was a momentary pause that I took as him asking for permission, and I gave it with a rough jerk of my head and a choked groan.
Vaughn made short work of my pants and slid his hand inside. His grip was tight and the right kind of rough, his mouth beneath my ear as he jacked me.
“That’s it,” he whispered in a filthy drawl. “Fuck my hand, come on.” He lightly sucked at the skin beneath my ear. “I can feel you’re getting close. You are, aren’t you?”
It didn’t take me long, my senses heightened by the inherent danger of public sex and the suddenness of the encounter. I grabbed at his arm hard and wondered what the fuck I was supposed to do if I came all over myself, but I was far too turned on to even consider stopping him. As if he read my mind through my gesture, he kissed the edge of my ear and said, “I’ve got this.”
It should have been cheesy, but as it was followed up by Vaughn going to his knees in one smooth motion and taking my cock in his mouth, I just gasped incoherently as he swallowed around me, and threw my forearm up against my mouth to muffle my shout as I came down his throat.
The intense orgasm left me shaking and worn out, and I leaned back against the wall and fought to catch my breath and stay on my feet. I vaguely felt Vaughn tucking my spent cock back in my pants and fixing my clothes, and he honest-to-god patted me on the chest as he pulled away. I watched him through half-lowered eyes as he ran a hand over his hair, though I didn’t think I’d mussed him at all. He looked as put-together as he had that first moment I’d laid eyes on him.
“Um,” I said, graceless and still brain-dead from the orgasm. I made a vague motion that was half wave and half obscene gesture, indicating that I’d return the favor as soon as my legs stopped shaking.
“I’m afraid we’re about to have company,” he said, and I heard voices and steps approaching. “Unfortunately,” he added, and while he looked every inch the cool, calm, and collected ravisher, there was a bit of a flush to his fair skin and his strange, pale eyes now burned with heat.
I smoothed my hands down my own suit, sure that I somehow had I just got sucked off by a stranger written all over me. “It was, ah. A pleasure to meet you, Vaughn.” I was right back to awkward, apparently.
Vaughn just leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “The pleasure was all mine, William.”
The gallery was slowly filling up with people, and I caught a glimpse of my sister grinning at me from across the room. Two people came up to Vaughn, one of whom was Keith Oakley.
“I heard you’re something of an art collector yourself, Vaughn. Did you see my Staunton?” Keith asked. “It’s my newest acquisition.”
“I did indeed. It’s quite something,” said Vaughn, and I found myself turning away to hide my smile.
The longer I stood there though, the more I began to fret over what I’d done. I kept glancing at Vaughn, who went right back to socializing like he hadn’t just blown me in between million-dollar paintings. He was apparently a popular guy, because most people who came down to the gallery wanted to talk to him about something. I gradually moved away, uncomfortable with the crowd, with wondering if I’d just made a colossal fool of myself, if I was making more than I should’ve out of a brief moment of pleasure.
I thought about going to Vaughn, giving him my number. Seeing if he wanted to go to an actual museum sometime. Together. On a date. We’d gotten along, and clearly the physical attraction was mutual. Why not? I so rarely met men I connected with, much less had such an intense reaction to—wasn’t it at least worth exploring? I was never going to be anything but lonely if I didn’t take these kinds of opportunities when they presented themselves.
Instead, I thought about that ominous stripe of black on the Staunton, the night sky waiting to swallow the bold bright lights of a dying day. And I left without saying thank you to my host, or goodbye to my sister, and without giving Amory Vaughn my number. I told myself it was better this way, but I didn’t really believe it.
I was in a morose mood when I went back to my apartment in Arlington, though not so morose that I didn’t spend some quality time thinking about Vaughn. It had been one of the hottest sexual encounters of my life—all right, probably the hottest sexual encounter of my life. But after I’d gotten off thinking about it, when I was lying in my bed covered in sweat with a sticky hand…I felt the pang of loss, knowing that was all it could ever be.
Vaughn might be a Staunton, but I was most certainly a Turner. Bold just wasn’t my style.
* * *
I woke up late the next day, and got ready to go for a run. But when I opened my door, I found something in the hallway—a very large something—propped up on the wall adjacent to my door.
It was a painting. More specifically, I saw when I opened the crate, it was the Staunton, Sunset Down, which was supposed to be hanging in Keith Oakley’s gallery.
There was a note taped on the wall above the painting. Hands shaking, I leaned in to read it, knowing better than to touch anything with my bare hands.
I trust you have better lighting.
Underneath was an invitation to what I assumed was his home on Saturday, along with a postscript that said, The Hugo Boss from last night will suffice. For now.
I stared at the Staunton and the note, so many warring reactions roiling in my stomach that the thought of a run dissipated to nothing. Shock, anger, and there, just behind my ribcage, a trickle of disappointment.
This morning I’d thought that if nothing else, my unexpected amorous encounter might possibly lead to my sister getting that contract she wanted so badly. And maybe it would lead to more. She’d get her Moby, and I’d get my Dick.
Now I had to arrest Amory Vaughn.